I'm Not That Man
by Skalidra
Summary: The plan to rescue Allura doesn't go nearly as smoothly as anyone dared to hope. Keith engaged in direct battle against Zarkon; Lance, Pidge, and Coran struggling to keep their excape route open; and Allura and Hunk trying to get an injured Shiro back to his Lion, so they can make it out in time. They're just a few minutes too slow, and Shiro starts to believe that the whole thing


Day 4! (Skipped 3; Bang-fic to post.) The prompt for this day was, 'Flashback/Reality.' Of course, that's just an excuse to write some overlapping memory times and make up reasons for all of Shiro's traumas. I mean, obviously. XD Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for: Referenced brainwashing, torture, and amputation.

* * *

Their big rescue mission doesn't go exactly as planned. The scratches in his side burn like fire, glowing purple — the way Allura looks at them says that's _bad_ — and the pain feels bizarrely familiar. There's something nagging at the back of his mind, even once Haggar is gone and he's being pulled through the ship, supported by Allura on one side and Hunk on the other. Something that won't leave him be; that wants to _remember_ something important. Like a word on the tip of his tongue.

"Something's wrong," he mumbles, as that nagging grows more insistent, as his head _aches_.

"You have been poisoned," Allura says in a rush, urging him along faster. "It will be fine; the Castle can treat such injuries and you will be just fine. We _must_ get you out before there are any other complications to this insane plan of yours."

"It's gonna be okay, buddy," Hunk echoes, hand squeezing his wrist.

"No," he protests, "something is _wrong_. Not— Not the poison. I can _feel_ —"

Can feel a hand on his throat, see the glow of yellow eyes in the darkness and hear a laugh echoing in his ears. Just Haggar's mind games, right? Showing him what he's afraid of; that nightmare that he could have become if he hadn't escaped, the fear that somewhere deep inside him he _is_ the monster they wanted him to be.

His head aches sharper, and he gasps and remembers— He _remembers_ —

Purple eyes and a massive hand on his jaw, looking down at him with the curl of a smirk. The brush of a clawed thumb over his mouth, and a question. " _Will you serve me, Champion?"_

 _Glory to the empire_ , he mouths in time with a memory, and then he _jerks_ himself free of Allura and Hunk and sprawls backwards onto the floor, eyes wide.

"Shiro! We _must_ hurry!" Allura's vice is sharp and desperate, and she's reaching for him and—

"Don't touch me," he gasps. "Don't— _Go_. Take the Black Lion and get Keith and _run_. I—" He looks up, skin hand scrubbing over his face and back through his hair, gaze meeting the wide eyes of Allura. "I think he wanted this. I think there's something—"

"Uh-uh," Hunk interrupts, reaching down and grabbing his metal arm, hefting him up. "Nope, not happening, no way. Get it together, buddy, you can make it. You'll feel right as rain once you're back in your Lion."

The ghost of a hand over his cheek, the echo of, " _Find Voltron._ _ **Find it**_ _."_

"You don't understand," he tries to protest, but lets them all but carry him down the corridor. Alarms are blaring, in time with the pounding in his skull and the sharp _ache_ of it. He tries to shy away from the memories leeching into his mind; if he doesn't know they can't be true. _Can't_ be.

He knew the Galra had to be stopped from the moment he woke up on Earth. He _knew_ it. He's not loyal to Zarkon; he's not that person in his head that tilts into the brush of a hand on his cheek and answers, " _As you command, my Emperor."_

He's _not_.

The alarms cut out, and he pulls his head up in response to the sudden stiffness of his allies, balling his human hand to a fist as the instinct comes to fight, fight, _fight_. Instead of anything physical there's a sharp crackle, like static, from his helmet, and then he goes utterly still as a smooth, deep, _unmistakable_ voice comes from it.

" _Paladins._ _ **Allura**_ _. I have your little Red Paladin, and I have reclaimed the Black Lion. Surrender, or I will blast you from the sky; one by one."_

His heart stops beating for a second, mouth parting on a gasp as _horror_ digs claws into his chest. _Keith_. He can't— He can't lose Keith. Not like this, not to _Zarkon_.

He looks over at Allura, and finds her looking back at him, expression originally mirroring his but slowly sliding to something darker. Grim. It _hurts_ , but he knows what she's going to say even before she opens her mouth. "He cannot be allowed to have control over all of Voltron." He opens his mouth and she shakes her head, free hand flicking towards her ear and the lack of communicator there. He swallows down his words. "You are their leader, Shiro. _Give the order_."

Hunk's head is shaking on the other side, and he squeezes his eyes shut not to see the expression that must be there. He hates it, he's _terrified_ what it might mean, but there's no other option. The Black and Red Lions are already Zarkon's, Hunk's is a sitting duck and they're too far to make it in time to stop that, so if he gets Pidge and Lance too… If there's _any_ chance to avoid that they have to take it, no matter what.

No matter what.

"Pidge, Lance…" He has to stop, swallow, wincing at how weak his voice sounds. " _Run!_ "

There's an immediate explosion of noise in his ears; the shouts of Pidge and Lance, and Coran, urging them both to hurry. Beneath that, a displeased hiss that wakes _terror_ in his bones, like the rest of him is somehow familiar with it, knows it, _fears_ it. He doesn't know how though; isn't sure he wants to know. He just knows that he trembles, maybe from the decision, maybe from that hiss, maybe from the fact that he's probably just sent at least three of his allies to their deaths. Maybe Keith too, if Zarkon decides to punish him. It could be four deaths.

It could mean the death of the person he cares for more than anyone else, the only one who understands and accepts his flashbacks and his random terrors. The only one he's found real solace in. God, _Keith_.

That's still better than the hundreds of _thousands_ of planets that will burn if Zarkon gets hold of all of Voltron.

Hunk lets him slide to the floor, real arm pressed tight against his wounded side, his head hung low because he can't _bear_ to see what Hunk thinks of him. It's the right choice, he _knows_ it is, but Hunk is kinder than him, younger. He doesn't know the cost of wars yet. Not that he really does either but… a part of him does. He understands more than the other Paladins do how _many_ Galra die on every ship they destroy. He understands that the Galra may be a cruel race, but they're still sentient beings, still _people_. Maybe with families, or partners…

And then there's a part of him that _knows_ blood. That sees death and doesn't even pretend to draw away. That's the part that scares him; he doesn't know where it came from or what happened to make it, and it's a ruthless little voice in his head that he can't block out. He tries _so hard_ not to listen to it, tries to listen to his heart instead, but… It's cost him. He can see that.

Maybe it would have been better to leave Allura here, and never risk Voltron at all. They'd have lost the ability for wormhole jumps, but maybe that would have been the better choice.

There are metal footsteps, rhythmic and sharp and echoing in his head, and he hears Hunk's gun charge up a moment later. He pulls his head up, reaches his Galra hand up and grabs Hunk's arm, even though the movement tugs at his injured side. It steals his breath, so thankfully Allura is the one to speak.

"Hunk, stand down."

Hunk's eyes are wide, shocked, _horrified_ , but he does nod after a few moments of struggle. The arm beneath his hand relaxes, and he lets his hand run down it to grip the bayard. Hunk gives it up after a second, and he twists — grits his teeth at the stretch — and slides it down the corridor to the group of guards and drones ahead of them. Then, slowly, he raises both his hands to either side of his head. By the bits of movement in his peripherals, he's pretty sure Allura and Hunk do the same.

The guards approach, and guns stay carefully trained on them as the drones drag their arms behind their backs and lock them into cuffs. He can feel his false arm go numb instantly, powering down until it's nothing but dead weight, pinned at the small of his back. He shudders, then gasps when he's dragged to his feet. Allura is ahead of him, standing tall but with a gun pressed to her side; good call, really.

It hurts to be standing, and it doesn't take his guards long to realize that he's only sort-of capable of keeping pace. He's almost relieved when one puts a hard hand against his back, pushing him forward with more force. Too much weight hangs on his shoulders to be comfortable, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to just endure it. That pain isn't much compared to the fire of the scratches; it's just another ache to add to the rest. He'll be fine.

No one speaks. Hunk and Allura are silent, in front of and behind him, and the guards don't seem interested in gloating. Saving it for Zarkon.

He doesn't pay as close attention to the route as he should, but what's the point? He's injured, two of the lions are captured and one is damaged, Keith's been taken, and— and the rest of their team is either dead, or gone. There's no point in mapping the ship; not anymore. Whatever happens next, the chances of escape are tiny. He doesn't have the strength to try and be optimistic right now.

He recognizes the doors to Zarkon's throne room though, like an echo in the back of his head that he can't quite shake. He's never _actually_ been here, as far as he remembers, but his memories are far from complete. He can _feel_ that. He can hear it in the echoing whispers in the back of his mind, the ghostly touches of places he doesn't remember being touched. Whatever the story is of his scars, and arm, and hair, it's _bad_. He knows that much.

His breath comes sharper as they enter the throne room, and his gaze raises magnetically, helplessly, to the throne dominating the far side of the room. Zarkon is sitting on it, straight and still, Haggar at his side. For several long moments he can't tear his gaze away, and when he does it's only because a splash of red catches his eye. It's _Keith_ lying at the foot of Zarkon's throne, helmet gone, arms bound behind his back. He has the insane urge to jerk away from his guards, to run there, to make sure Keith's _alright_ , but it passes with another throb of his side.

He won't help anything by letting Zarkon know that he cares for Keith more than the others. He has weaknesses aplenty, he doesn't need to give away _more_ ammunition.

He's pushed to his knees, Allura to his left and Hunk to his right, and then a rough grip drags his helmet off. He doesn't know where it goes, but the next moment there's the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his neck, and a flicker of his gaze to either side tells him Allura and Hunk are in the same situation. There's silence, as one guard goes ahead of them and collects Keith from the floor, dragging him across the room and into position on Hunk's other side. By the time he's been manhandled into kneeling there, his eyes are blinking open, slowly. Dazed, and there's a rough abrasion on his left cheek with a thin trail of blood down his jaw, but nothing too serious.

Zarkon speaks, and his attention snaps back to the front of the room. "Haggar, see to your poison. Then bring our Champion here."

Haggar's smile is wicked, and his blood freezes at that look, instinct and memory screaming she's to be _feared_ , screaming to get out while he can, to submit, to—

"As you command, Emperor," she says, and then in a _blink_ she's next to him, shadow curling off her form as he flinches back. "Get him up."

He's dragged to his feet, gun leaving his neck so hands can grip his arms instead, lifting him and then twisting him so his injured side is bared. He shivers, tries to pull away as she reaches out for him but the guard is stronger. Her claws touch the beginnings of the scratches, then dig _in_. His neck arches, the breath caught in his throat the only thing keeping him from crying out. Until the claws drag along the length of the scratches, and then it comes free in a rush and he _screams._

It feels like the aching fire in his veins is being drawn through him in a torrent, burning right beneath his skin as it's dragged through and god it _hurts_. Then suddenly it's over. The fire is gone, leaving him suddenly empty, _hollow_. He slumps against the guard's hold, head lolling to one side, trying to _breathe_. The guard pushes him forward without giving him the chance to rest, and he struggles to open his eyes, to focus on Haggar's back and then the fact that he's being taken forward, to the foot of Zarkon's throne.

"No," he protests, weakly. His voice comes out rough. " _No_."

No one pays attention. He's dropped to his knees, head shoved down by one metal hand, and — the phantom taste of blood on his tongue, fresh and sharp and _not his,_ paired with the touch of a hand in his hair and murmured praise — his head is pounding again, past overlapping present. Zarkon _stands_ , and he breathes faster, shudders, can't look up but he can see the approaching boots. Huge, armored; a kick feels like the impact of a _car._ (How does he know that?)

The guard lets him go, but only so that a fraction of a second later Zarkon can reach down, grasping his throat and dragging him up. He chokes, but finds his feet before it becomes an actual problem. Then he's left to stare up at Zarkon, to hear the utter _silence_ in the room as his heart pounds and he breathes sharp and fast, trying not to imagine how the massive hand around his throat could just _squeeze_.

It lets go, easing up to cup his face, to brush a large, clawed thumb over his cheek. "My little Champion… You've served me well, slave."

 _'My little Champion'_ echoes in his head, and echoes, and _echoes_.

"What?" he asks, _gasps_.

Zarkon's mouth curls into a smirk. Slow, confident, _victorious_. "You found Voltron and brought it to me, just as you were ordered."

He freezes up, feels the echo of it in his head but takes a step back anyway, pulling away from Zarkon's hand. "No," he tries to deny. "No, I didn't. I _wouldn't_."

Zarkon's hand flicks out, light but the Galra are _stronger_ than humans, and the blow that cracks across his face is enough to slam him to the ground, to make him taste blood. He groans, blinking to clear his vision, to gather himself before another blow can come. It won't though; he remembers that now. Zarkon strikes _once_. To cripple, to debilitate. Then the rest is left to underlings. (Shouldn't know that either.)

"Leave him alone!" comes a shout, and he recognizes Keith's voice. There's a moment of relief, fighting with fear, fighting with _hope_ , before Keith snarls, "He's _not_ yours, Galra _filth!_ "

There's a sharp gasp from Allura, and he freezes in place, waiting for the retribution, waiting for the _gunshot_. Instead, Zarkon gives a low, rumbling chuckle.

"Oh but he _is_ , little human." Zarkon turns on one heel, cape sweeping the floor behind him as he ascends the steps to return to his throne. "Haggar, return our Champion's memories."

His head snaps around, just in time to see Haggar give a wide grin beneath the shadow of her hood. There's no teleportation this time; she moves towards him and he crawls back as best he can without his arms, trying to get his legs underneath him, trying to ignore the pull of the wounds in his side and the ache of his head so he can get _away_. It's useless. Even with the slower pace that Haggar moves at, he just doesn't have the mobility to get anywhere.

He kicks out, mouth curving into a snarl, and Haggar neatly sidesteps and then black lightning _blasts_ into the center of his chest. He seizes, a cry catching in his throat, electricity crackling beneath his skin and taking his breath so even when the cry comes loose the best that comes out is a single, sharp syllable of it. Then Haggar is kneeling beside him, cupping his head with both hands and forcing his neck into an arch.

" _Remember_ , Champion," she hisses, and _power_ burns into his skull.

He _screams_.

 _Pain_ , and the slash of a blade across his face. Fire and the taste of his own blood, the lower half of his face covered in it as he stares dully into the slightly reflective surface of the medic's floor and lets himself be stitched together again. A hand on his shoulder, clawed fingertips pressing against half-healed wounds, exploring how his body is falling apart piece by piece as they stitch and tend to one wound after another, remaking his body anew.

 _Pain_ , and the slam of his head against rock. Blood pouring back along his scalp and forward into his eyes. Desperation as he slashes almost blindly and _hits_ , hard enough to cripple his opponent and win him the match, even though he can barely see. The tug of fingers in his hair when it grows in white over the point of impact, like it's a leash to drag his head back with. Interest from Haggar and Zarkon that he doesn't _want_ but can't _stop_.

 _Agony,_ and the slash of claws mangles his arm, rips the flesh from bone to the point where even the Galra can't fix him. Even worse, when they strap him down and cut it _off_ as he screams and _screams_ until his voice breaks, until his throat bleeds, until his eyes run dry and all that's left is bone-deep exhaustion and a grief too hard for him to name. He heals slowly, painfully, and he's back in the arena. Down an arm and out of shape and he barely scrapes by in his fights, comes out broken and bleeding but _victorious_. Teeth and nails and _blood_ carry him, inch by inch, to _survive_ , to _win_.

Not without cost.

 _Relief_ , and his new arm is tough, deadly. A work of art meant for killing and nothing else. It's a shorter leash too — disabling cuffs and a real cell — but it's worth it. Torture, training; words for the same things. Pain — god, _so much pain_ — but also the lingering of hands, the touches to his back; _progress_. It's all _worth it_. He knows gratitude, knows belonging, knows _loyalty_.

 _"Will you serve me, Champion?"_

 _His head tilts up, into the hand, and he grins through bloody teeth. "Glory to the empire," he breathes. "Anything you ask, my Master."_

Fingertips drag away from his face, and he breathes shallowly, prying his eyes open as he resettles into his own mind. No more dark corners, no more empty patches in his memory. He knows it all, and the _beast_ inside him comes awake again, stretching out, falling back on instinct and learned _viciousness_. He takes a deeper breath, braces his working hand on the floor beneath him and curls up with the ease of practice. Haggar stands before him, and he tilts his head back to look her in the eye, to read her intentions in the curl of her smirk and the narrowness of her eyes.

"Champion." She's pleased.

"Mistress," he answers, lowering his gaze for a moment but no longer. Then he turns his torso to look up, to meet Zarkon's gaze for one brief moment before bowing his head, legs gathering beneath him. " _Master_."

Silence. He keeps his head bowed, stays mostly still, and awaits judgment. Which comes in the form of Zarkon ordering, "Give him his arm back."

One of Haggar's hands flicks up, and he feels the crackle of electricity against his wrists moments before the cuffs drop. His arm powers back up and he rolls his shoulders forward, stretching his arms out one by one and then activating the weaponry in his replacement just so he can feel the _hum_ of the power against his senses. It dims again when he allows it to shut down, as he rises to his feet. The wounds in his side pull, but it's nothing but an irritation; he's learned a thousand times over how to move through the pain of injuries.

"Shiro?" comes a questioning, wavering voice. He turns, tilting his head to look at — of course — Keith. Violet eyes wide, pleading, _begging_. "Shiro, please. Are you still there?"

Only weaker creatures beg.

"Shiro, _come on!_ " Keith's horror breaks into frustration, to anger. "Druid magic messes with minds, and whatever you saw probably wasn't real. She's _using_ you!"

Interest strikes him fast and hard, and he stalks towards his (friend, lover, _pet?_ ) ally, drawing the approach out, moving at an angle so Keith knows exactly what he is. _Prey_. "It's real," he answers simply, waving the guard off with a flick of his human hand. "I remember everything now, Keith. Every blow that's ever scarred, every opponent I ever killed…" He lets his gaze flick down Keith's frame and up again, gives a sharp flash of _teeth_ and finishes, "Every time we ever _fucked_."

Keith's expression goes through a whirlwind-fast flicker of emotions — fear and anger and more things he can't recognize before they're gone — and he steps closer and _strikes_ in one sharp move. His heel connects with the center of Keith's chest, slamming him to the floor. Hunk _jerks._

"Leave him alone!" it's Hunk's turn to demand, struggling against the guard for a moment before the gun digs harder into his neck. He tilts his head, holding Hunk's gaze, and then lets the rising, stalking, _vicious_ part of him curl his mouth into a sharp grin.

He gives half a lunge, _snaps_ his teeth together, and Hunk flinches back and actually _yelps_ , cringing inwards. It's enough to make him laugh, and god it feels _good_ to be a predator again. He's not prey anymore; he was made to forget, but the arena turned him into a savage beast, and his masters reshaped him to a vicious, refined, _predator_. He is the _Champion_ ; he is to be _feared_.

"Zarkon!" Allura calls, voice sharp and ringing. "Your point is proved; end this."

He looks back, waiting to see if Zarkon will call him off. A small nod gets him to straighten up, dipping his head in obedience as he circles around, away from Hunk and to Keith's other side, where he can watch both the prisoners and Zarkon without having to move. Keith struggles back up to kneeling, breathing hard and looking up at him with wide, stunned eyes. There's a hard undercurrent of anger to them too though, and he tilts his head and makes no effort to contain the interest blooming in his stomach.

Allura shifts a bit, straightening just a little more and then demanding, "How did you accomplish this? Shiro would not have served you; not as he was."

He remembers, but he waits for Zarkon to speak instead.

"Suggestions implanted deep within his mind by my Druids," is the rumbling answer. "Manifesting as impulses that his naïve, weak former self would never think to question." A smirk. "Find Voltron. Confront the Galra. Two things guaranteed to lead him directly back to me with my prize in his hand."

Allura pauses, looking taken aback, disbelieving. "You could not _possibly_ have known that any of the Lions would accept him as a Paladin."

Zarkon _laughs_ ; low and only for a few moments, but it happens. His voice is mocking when he says, "I led the Lions for years before you were born, child; I know _exactly_ what each of them accepts in a Paladin. I made him into exactly what the Black Lion would accept, until faced with its true partner. Now, Champion…"

He straightens. "Master?"

"Bring the little Paladin to me."

Keith has time for about one moment of surprise before he reaches down and curls his human fingers into that black hair, wrenching him up and then dragging him forward. Keith only struggles for a moment to find his feet, and grits his teeth instead of allowing any noise of pain at the rough handling. He pulls Keith most of the way up the steps, shoving him down at Zarkon's feet and holding him there with his head bowed until Zarkon flicks a hand to wave him away.

Keith's head lifts almost instantly, fear clear in the corners of his expression but mouth curled into a snarl anyway. "What did you do to him?" Keith demands.

Zarkon's mouth curls a bit. "The arena's turned thousands of warriors to beasts, little Paladin. I gave him the strength to survive it."

"You—"

" _Careful_ , Paladin. A bit of temper is amusing; more invites the removal of your tongue."

Keith's mouth clicks closed, but he can see the anger rising, and the shift of jaw that suggests that Keith is physically biting his tongue not to say anything. He never did have the best hold on his temper, even back on Earth. Be a shame to lose that tongue though, even if he can't imagine Keith willingly using it any time soon. If he even survives this confrontation.

Zarkon watches for a few moments and then, apparently satisfied with Keith's silence, looks at him instead. "Champion, you'll return to the arena and lay to rest any rumors of your defection that have spread. After that, you'll be rewarded for your loyalty with a title; a new Commander for my fleets." His chest expands with a sudden sharp breath, but before he can even _begin_ to process that, let alone respond, Zarkon continues, "Until then, a prize for your victory, Champion." He follows the turn of Zarkon's gaze back towards Keith. "He's yours; do what you will with him."

The outburst is sudden and loud. Three overlapping voices, shouting, protesting, as Keith recoils.

He grins.


End file.
